The Silence
by RynStar15
Summary: The war rages on and the Muggle-borns have been rounded up and thrown into camps like animals. He will give her life, she will give him freedom. They will give each other the chance to fight back.
1. The Figure

Chapter One

She licked her lips, tasted the iron tang of blood, felt the cracks of neglectful treatment. She rubbed her cheek against the stone, breathed in the dust, the bodily fluids, the hate.

How does one smell hate, taste it like a tangible item? If it was possible, she was carrying out this odd idea.

Should she sit up? What was the point?

_To live. You have to live._

But why? For what purpose?

_You have to get back to them, get back to Harry, to Ron, to life…_

What did it matter anymore, really? They'd failed, hadn't they? Hadn't she failed to pull Harry through like she knew she had to? And this, this was what her life had been reduced to as a result. She deserved it, really.

Without much planning, she rolled onto her back, her hair crackling beneath her head from the caked blood. It wasn't recent; she hadn't seen a soul in days. The pain had almost ceased to bother her any longer. Almost.

Her breath curled into ribbons, twining and winding into itself before evaporating into the darkness before the next exhale produced yet another. And another. And another.

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They weren't coming.

She admitted it to herself for the first time since she'd arrived. At first she'd fought, she'd resisted. She'd known that if she just held on, took as many out as she could, that they would find her, come for her, break her out of this hell. But the hours had turned into days, the days to weeks, the weeks into endless months. How long had it been? She didn't know. She would probably never know. She'd counted the days by the rising sun for a while, and when she was moved to a windowless cell, counted the seconds, the minutes, the hours. She'd lost track, of course she had. So she'd carved it into the wall. She wrote the treachery so no one would ever forget. But she had forgotten what she'd been writing about. So she'd stopped.

It was a fleeting thought she'd pushed away. She'd made excuses, talked herself into believing. But there was no use. If she had to fool her mind, wouldn't she lose herself as well? They may have broken her body, her spirit, her pride, her magic, but they wouldn't break her soul, the only thing she had left. And what a soul it was.

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The guards took her out of the underground cell today. They said she was worthless where she was, that she would join the others soon, be put to work. It didn't matter if she spent her time in a cell or plowing a field. It didn't matter anymore.

She wasn't taken straight to the barracks. She was taken to the above ground cells, the ones for interrogation, for torture. She had been there for a long time before they had grown bored of her silence and thrown her below. The food they shoved at her face made her stomach growl. She kicked it away. She'd rather die.

They questioned her again, as if time in that hole-in-the-wall would make her re-think her position. They wouldn't kill her. No, not when they could use her for work and bait. She would be bait for Harry. At first she'd worried he'd run in there on a rash decision, get himself hurt trying to save her. Now, she wished he would.

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She clutched the rolled blanket, the metal plate, the plastic goblet. These were her only provisions now, these were her life. She took her place on the only empty bunk, a top one. There was no ladder.

She'd been snuck through camp in the dead of night, as if she had gone during the day she would conspire with the others for a break out. The night would obviously prevent her from doing so. Obviously.

The nine other girls in the small wooden shack were breathing deeply; sleep claiming them from the toil of the day. She pushed her only possessions onto the wood plank that was her bed and pulled herself onto it as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb the others. She quelled the urge to cry out at the pain that ripped through her tapered back, her newly repaired arms, her thrashed legs. She ignored it, as always, and lay on the wood board, clutching the blanket and plate to her chest. She curled into a ball facing the door and pushed her cup to guard her back from the leaking wall. The rain would be her only other companion that night.

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The work was endless, meaningless. Her muscles strained and protested the weight applied upon them as she transported the box of supplies from broom sling to the kitchens. There was no reason they couldn't have flown strait to the tent's back door. Except to make them work while they shot hexes at them for target practice. The punishment for dropping your crate was ten lashes. She had thirty-five. The extra was because he could.

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The rain pounded away, turning the dirt into mud, the puddles into lakes. The sky was an endless grey, a color that permeated the senses, tearing away every happy thought and blowing it into the stormy wind. Or that could have been the Dementors.

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She could count the days again, if she wanted to. But it didn't matter. They were all the same, only the work changed. Some days she lugged boxes, some days she made food, some days she dug graves for the dead. Others, she was taken back to the main cabin and questioned. Would the pain ever cease?

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Cindy asked her yesterday why she never talked. She'd sat right there, on the chair next to her, sewing the cloaks for the Death Eater's, chattering away about her husband, her little boys, both of whom were in the camp next to them. Then she'd asked her about her life, asked about her age, her family, her likes. But she hadn't answered; it was an interrogation, just like the rest. Cindy hadn't been deterred; she'd gone right along, talking away.

She dug Cindy's grave today.

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The night swallowed her steps as the mud sucked at her bare feet. She hadn't opted for her only pair of shoes, not wanting to ruin them any more than they already were. She didn't care, really, if she was caught. It didn't matter. So she walked along, while the world slept and ran her fingers along the harsh metal gates that separated the boy's camp from theirs. She looked for a while, trying to find differences, something that could trip the cord of endless monotony. But there were none. Exactly the same.

_________________________________________

Tonight, she sat in the mud, the freezing earth seeping into her clothing. She stared and stared over at the boy's camp, searching, searching. She didn't know what she was searching for, but she would know when she saw it.

_________________________________________

She saw it, saw _him_. He just stood there, looking at her from the other side of the fence before he turned and ran, ran as fast as he could, slipping in the mud and falling, pushing himself back up and keeping on.

She envied his fear.

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He came back the next night. He stood there, waiting as if she would call to him, call his name, ask him for a cup of tea. But that was ridiculous. She didn't even know who he was. He left.

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He didn't come the next night. Or the next. But he did on the third. She congratulated herself for counting the days.

He walked forward, a little closer, a little closer. All she could see was darkness, tall, black, darkness. She waited for him to approach the fence so she could see his eyes. He didn't. She stood in the rain after he left, her fingers growing numb on the metal fence. She wondered why the alarms didn't sound.

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The days no longer mattered. They were merely some time to get through until the grey turned into a darker grey, a choking grey. The grey turned to black. Inky black. The black that swallowed dreams, if she had any to share with the starving night.

When the girls had obtained that quiet rhythm, she would leave then, during the changing of the guard. The mud would threaten to tell her secrets, but she wouldn't allow it. She would run, run, just to wait, wait. He would come. If it took a day, a week, he would come. They would stay there, staring. The distance was safe, the distance was cruel. How could they bring harm if they knew not of the other's identity?

But it wasn't enough. Not anymore.

Her thoughts begged him to come forth, her mind wishing he would hear. But he was deaf against the pounding of the rain, the thunder of the silence between them.

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He was closer tonight. She could see his silhouette against the agonizing sleet. Did he live? Was she simply imagining him? A crack broke the silence and he looked around, ran. He turned back, looked at her where she stood, frozen. A wave of his hand. Go. He was telling her to go. The crack had come from her side. They knew she was gone.

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The next night she was more careful, looking about to see if she was followed.

He was there, standing where he always did, in the midst of all that mud, a lone figure in the mire. She clenched the fence, as always, letting it dig into her pink skin. The wind was rough tonight, pulling at her dirty clothes.

He walked toward her. Her breath caught, held.

He slowly came into view, his silhouette turning into a figure. And then he was there, standing right in front of her.

"Hermione."

His deep voice said only that single word. It was an acceptance, an offer. She looked into his eyes.

She fled.

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XOXO

RynStar15


	2. The Hand

Upon waking, she dug a splinter from her cheek, resting it alongside the others on the far end of her bed. She didn't know why she kept them. They were mementos, she supposed. This was what she had done, this was who she had become, a body for splinters to ledge themselves in. At least she was of use to something. She hugged her gown around her and followed the other girls of her cabin to the mess tent, plate and goblet in hand.

The women's attire consisted of nothing more than a burlap-type material in the shape of male's nightgown. Hermione's was ripped up at the bottom, having been far too long and trod on over the months of toil. It was said they would be issued a new one at the beginning of the next year. When that was, she had no idea.

Her last day in the real world had been one of spring, one of sun and barely budding blooms. The grass had run red that day.

Once in the mess tent, they would line up, receive their water, gruel, and bread. They ate where they found room (for there were no tables or chairs) and given a three minute countdown from the moment they stepped out of line. Those who were not out of the tent and working by the end of the three minutes spent the next twenty under the Cruciatus.

She dug more graves today. Women had died during the night, passed away much to the envy of those left behind.

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She'd tried magic before. Once, when she was in the cell. When she still had hope. It had rebounded back to her, a simple _Reducto!._ It had burnt a hole in her stomach and they had laughed for a few seconds before repairing it. She wished some days they had just left it.

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She didn't go back for three nights. Three long nights in which she cowered in the corner of her bed, her muscles jerking against the blinding cold. It had all been just a dream, her demented mind creating its own fantasies in order to stay sane. Not as though it mattered. She'd left her sanity long ago.

Now she stood in the rain just outside the door to her barracks, the wind whipping her measly clothing and lank hair. It was the only way to clean herself now. She hadn't had a proper shower since she'd arrived.

Her face turned towards the men's camp, away from the rain. The mud squelched between her toes, flowing over the tops of her bare feet. She was immobile, not even the wind moved her. A Dementor flew between two cabins to her left and kept right on going, not even noticing her. She never flinched. They had no desire in her. She was only a shell. They fed on those with hope.

Her feet moved of their own accord, pulling her towards that flicker of light among all this dark.

He was there, standing at the gate, in her spot. His hands were between the metal wires like hers always were. His eyes never left her. Her feet dragged, wanting to stay away from this reality. She wanted to go back to the barracks, back to the nothingness. But the wind pushed her forward. She stopped a meter from where he stood, staring.

They didn't speak, just looked on at one another. Her body shook against the cold. It would get worse before it got better. Not that the weather made much difference.

His eyes urged her forward, those dark, chocolate eyes. She didn't move, just took in the actuality of this moment.

She shouldn't be here.

Her feet moved her back, away. His grip tightened on the wire. He said nothing. A look crossed his face, then left, leaving the pain she knew they all felt.

She watched him as she walked backwards, watched as he grew smaller and smaller.

Her bed was no comfort.

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He was there again. The rain had turned to sleet, bearing down on her, dripping down her face, pelting her shoulders and back as she walked towards him. She stopped once again, just out of reach. She watched as he fit his arm through the wire, reaching out for her. He was reaching out.

"Please," he begged, his voice rough. Her eyes locked on that one piece of flesh, the five fingers protruding, extending towards her, trying to contact her. He leaned further into the fence, reaching for her. For her. She hesitated.

"Hermione, take my hand."

She ran.

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She couldn't do it. She couldn't go back. She gripped the rough wooden post of her bunk as if that would keep her body from doing whatever it wanted. But it proved impossible.

Her feet moved of their own accord, pulling her towards that one place she stayed in her mind all day, the reason she'd gotten ten Stinging Hexes for accidently skinning her boomslang too thin.

The mist permeated the darkness, a result of the sleet. She didn't see him at first, her heart skittering. But then he appeared, clutching the fence, looking in her direction. She saw him first and had the advantage of seeing his face before he could hide it. Worry lines etched his young skin. Then he saw her, those lines vanished. That hand came through the fence again, reaching, begging. She ran to the hand and clutched it with one of her own, looking up at the familiar face. It was both a pain and a comfort to see him.

He pulled her closer so that they stood mere inches away, the fence the only barrier.

"I can't believe it's you."

She tried to pull away but he held fast.

"Don't. Don't run. Stay, just for a moment."

Her heart was pounding; she had to get away from him. She shouldn't be here.

His hand was warm somehow, something she hadn't felt in a while. His other snaked out so that his body was leaning fully against the biting wire. He took her one hand in both of his.

"Everyone will be so happy to know you're alive. They'll-,"

She shook her head fiercely, fear, for the first time in months, pounded through her, leaving her breathless. She tried to pull away, she had to run, had to hide-

"Alright, alright, Hermione, calm down I won't tell anyone-,"

But she wrenched away and turned, running as fast as she could grab purchase. The fear raced through her veins and she didn't notice the black figure until it was too late.

"Hey you! _Stupefy!_"

They spell missed and she ran faster, weaving between the buildings, the mist obscuring her. Her heart pounded, not from the fear of being caught, but the fear of being known. She wasn't known, no one knew her.

She didn't exist.

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A/N: Think you know who that boy is? Mysteries will be revealed soon. Also, the chapters will be longer. :)

XOXO

RynStar15


	3. The Boy

Tonight was her night. She didn't think about it as they led her through the dark camp towards the Death Eater's hall. She looked up at the endless sky as the rain pelted her face. She wasn't facing anything new and she embraced it, knowing that for at least one night, the others were safe in their beds. At least for one night she could take their pain and keep it where it belonged.

They rutted against her, thrusting into her dry, sore hole. They moaned and panted and spat vile words.

She just looked away.

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The next day she couldn't stand. She was dragged through the mud by her hair, beaten, cursed, but still her battered legs wouldn't hold. She was thrown in a cell to await punishment.

Apparently, they hadn't enjoyed the sex as much as she.

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As the day turned to night outside she felt something other than the pain. A longing. That was it. He would be there, tonight, waiting for her. Would he stop coming while she was in here? The cold stone walls taunted her and the nearing footsteps had her closing her eyes against the brutality she knew she was to endure.

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They let her out days later, when her vagina and anus were healed enough to allow her to work. The lashes left blood on her back, her dress sticking to it. Her only thought, however, was of the night.

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She walked quickly, her footsteps in earnest. It did not rain this night, the sky clear. For once she wished for the rain, for the cover and safety it provided. But even if there were a spotlight on her she would not stop, would not slow down. Her heart pounded as she neared the fence, as his dark countenance came into view. She ran straight to his outstretched hand and grasped it tight.

"Oh, god, where have you been, what happened to you?" he said, his other hand coming out to stroke her bloody cheek. She just looked at him, looked at that face that begged her to remember. But she couldn't remember what she was forgetting.

"Jesus, what have they done?" he breathed. "Were you caught coming here?"

She shook her head, no.

"Did they question you? About Harry? Ron?"

She fell backwards, ripping away from his hand. She hit the ground, her back splattering in the mud. _Harry? Ron? Harry? Ron?_

"Hermione, what wrong? What's happened to you?" he begged, lowering himself so that he was eye level with her as she pushed herself up into a crab-like position. "Hermione, talk to me, what's going on?"

_Harry? Ron?_

_Hermione._

Her teeth chattered as she backed away, as she lifted herself against his protests.

She rocked herself on her bed, those three names bouncing around in her head. _Harry? Ron? Hermione. Harry? Ron? Hermione._

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She debated going to him as her hands cracked against the lye and hot water. She scrubbed, the women next to her talking in low tones. One girl came into their group late. She had tears in her eyes and she walked with a limp. It had been her night. A tall dark woman rushed forward to take the girl in her arms.

The sight shook her to her core.

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She went to him tonight after seeing the two women clasping each other against the wind. He was there, like always and she went to him, holding his hand without words. When his hand came out to touch her face she jumped.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, his deep voice reverberating against the wind.

"You have to tell me," he begged. "You have to tell me what happened. We've been hoping for so long that you might have made it somehow, that you would help us and now here you are. Please, tell me, help me understand."

She looked into those brown eyes. How had she never stared into them before? They were enchanting.

"Do-do you remember me?" he asked nervously. She nodded, yes.

"Can you talk? Have they taken away your speech?"

She closed her eyes. The first drops of rain hit her hand first where it was clasped against his. She looked down at the joining. Light and dark, small and large. Different, but alike. Her hands were still red and chapped from the scrubbing, his were calloused and scarred. She'd never looked at his hands before.

"Hermione, listen to me, NO!" His harsh command stopped her. "Don't pull away from me! We need you, Hermione. I don't know what's happened to you but I'm sorry, please, believe me. We need your help; you're our only hope now. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

She nodded.

"Will you help us?"

She shook her head.

Then she left.

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Dean smashed his fist against the bedpost when he returned to his barracks. He didn't know what to do, how to get through to her. It was obvious that something had happened, something wasn't right with her. He didn't know how much she understood, whether she could even talk or not. She seemed to take in everything he said, but her lack of response was daunting. What had they done to her? He could only imagine. She was Harry's best mate, besides Ron. They would tear her to shreds to get to him.

But was he even alive? Had Harry made it through? Would Hermione know?

Dean flopped onto his hard bed and rolled onto his back, staring up at the wooden plank of the bed above him. Spencer was asleep, finally. He usually just watched Dean come and go with dead eyes. He wasn't worried the shaggy haired boy would tell. The kid was quiet, speaking only when spoken to and never to the Death Eaters. Dean rolled onto his side and looked at the other nine boys around him, all sleeping now in the dead of the night. There was Cor across from him, a reedy Irish fellow whose brogue made Dean yearn for his best mate, Seamus. Keller slept in a ball above Cor, the oldest in their barracks at twenty-two. He had a wife, a Half-blood who had made it through the seizure.

In the next bunk was Justin Finch-Fletchley, a welcome face in the heat of all this turmoil. He maintained his calm and kind demeanor even though Dean could see the camp getting to him. Dean tried hard to not let him get down; they all needed his matter-of-fact support. Above him lay Linus, a Russian bard who sang every night before they went to bed. His soothing voice made it easier for them to rest after what they'd seen throughout the day.

At the end of the room against the back wall was Mark, a built man with a low voice who was always sent to the heavy work due to his muscular physique. He didn't mind because, as he'd once told Dean, it kept his mind from seeping into that darkness that taunted them all. Railey was situated above Mark. He could always be counted on to switch the topic to Quidditch when their thoughts grew too dark and to warn the others when the Dementers were on their way because he had some keen sense of them.

Sticks lay behind Dean's head and was named thus because that's what he looked like. Dean was in the habit of saving him a bit of bread to keep the boy's energy up. Terrence lay above Sticks and they had to fight to keep him under control at times. He was prone to lashing out and Mark had told Dean the boy had seen his little sister get carted off and had snapped. He'd been like this ever since.

The dull barracks looked normal from a Death Eater's eye. Two bunks on either wall, one on the back. No windows, one door, no adornments. But when the Death Eaters left, the ten boys rallied together, kept each other sane by their own ways, whether it was singing, storytelling, or just talking into the night. They made sure to stray away from happy thoughts the Dementors could steal and from bad ones which could slowly drive them mad. They had tried to work out escape plans but they never fell into formation. They had spoken of Harry, wondering whether the Chosen One had fallen and whether his Muggle-born friend, Hermione Granger, had been captured as well. Dean had wondered what had become of his Gryffindor friends and they'd all hoped Hermione had made it through and was just beyond that fence, waiting to save them all because Dean had told them all about her; all about her smarts and her wit and cunning. Justin had chimed in as well and they rode on that spark of hope that, if she were alive, she'd come up with a plan. She'd be able to tell them if Harry was safe, working on taking down You-Know-Who. Now that Dean had found her, he would do anything to get through to her, to make her understand that they needed her.

He closed his eyes to the image of her running up to him the night before, her dress torn, bloody by her crotch, her face a mask of welts, cuts, bruises. Her eyes were dull but wide, letting him know that something was getting through to her. He could only imagine the horrors she and the other women went through day after day. They were probably rape, molested, their small bodies beaten to within and inch of their lives. Hermione was skinnier than he'd ever seen her and probably weighed no more than eighty or ninety pounds. It scared him to see her like this, to see the woman who had led them into the D.A, whose hand was always first in the air when a teacher asked a question, who always had the answer and had gathered them all to join the Order after their sixth year and helped lead the meetings and the raids and the search parties. She was always on top of everything, never giving up hope, never letting anyone down, never stopping. To see her as this…this shell chilled him to the bone more than the screaming wind ever could. What had they done to her? Had they cast some spell to prevent her from speaking? Had they tortured her to the point of muteness? Or worse.

Had they finally broken the unbreakable Hermione Granger?

Dean refused to believe it. But as he rolled onto his side and hugged his raggedy blanket to his permanently frozen body, he knew Hermione Granger would never be the same.

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A/N: We finally know who our mystery boy is. Did you guess it?

More chapters to come soon! Let me know what you think.

XOXO

RynStar15


	4. The Awakening

She didn't sleep. For three days and three nights she lay there on the hard stone, a leak in the roof dripping on her left shoulder, the names reverberating in her mind. They should mean something, but didn't. The numb consumed her and she knew there was something, just there, just out of reach, that she should be striving to find. But instead, she lay within the realm of bliss. They'd taken her from that wooden bunk when she didn't rise. But they were the fools. She would lie there just the same whether it was stone or wood. The spells ripped through her, the voices swept over her. But she could only think of one thing.

That face. That face dark as night with the eyes that pierced through her. Her chest ached not being able to go to him. When would they let her out? She had to go back, even if his words terrified her. He knew everything. It scared her. No one knew. No one here knew.

Not even her.

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Dean suffered throughout her absence. It had been five days now and his stomach churned as he stood next to the damnable gate, waiting for her silhouette to appear through the fog. The night was silent but for the soft rain and his feet sank into the mud beneath him. Soon it would be too cold to come out here.

Where was she?

His fingers dug into the chain link and he wondered for the hundredth time why there was no alarm on this one. There was on every other. The boys had tried them all. But this one that separated the girls and boys had no alarm. It made no sense.

He waited anxiously, his whole body trembling against the cold. She had to come. Hermione had to be there.

But what if something had happened to her? What if they'd caught her coming to him? What if she was being tortured or killed? Or was it just because his words had scared her? And why would they? Had something happened to Harry and Ron that he didn't know about? Had they died and she was grief-stricken over it? And why did she start every time he said her name? What had happened to the Gryffindor Princess?

A movement in the fog startled him and he squinted through the white to the dark figure moving towards him. His heart stuttered as her form neared. She'd come. She'd finally come back.

He took in her disheveled appearance. She was so thin and pale; it was hard to get over. Her hair was matted and all over like it had been since he's first seen her but now it was glittering with droplets of water. Her face was hollow, her feet bare and caked with mud. Her "dress", if one could constitute it as such, was dirty and hanging off her tiny frame. But she was the most beautiful thing he'd seen. She was hope.

He held out his hand and she looked at it a long while, her lank hair falling across her face, before she took it. Her fingers were tiny, chapped, freezing. He pulled her closer and rubbed her hand between his trying to warm them.

"Where have you been?" he asked, knowing she probably wouldn't answer. She didn't disappoint. Simply hung her head further.

"Look at me," he implored. She raised her head reluctantly and he could see the hollows of her cheeks, the blank look in her eye, the bruises and scars. He knew he couldn't look much better. He'd lost maybe a stone since coming to this hell hole. "Don't turn away, look right at me." She held his gaze. "Do you know who I am?"

She started to turn her head away but his hand shot forward to stop her. "Look at me, please! I have to know. Do you know me? Don't you remember me?"

What if she didn't? Had they wiped her memory?

Her chin quivered, her eyes widened. She looked terrified at the prospect of answering a question. What the hell had happened to Hermione Granger? This was her, he knew it was. But this wasn't the strong, smart, witty girl he remembered. Slowly, slowly, her head moved up a fraction of an inch, down a fraction of an inch. A nod. Barely, but it counted. It was a start. They hadn't stolen her memory.

"What's my name?"

Her fingers squeezed in his but she didn't answer.

"Hermione, what's my name?"

He expected her to pull away, at the very least look at him terrified. But she did neither, just stood there, looking at the mud where the rain was spattering down to join the oozing mess.

"Hermione."

Still she didn't look at him. Her hand was warming slowly in his and he could see all the cracks, the dry spots, the calluses, the blisters. On his he saw much of the same. Scars, chapped knuckles, a bruise from yesterday. When she lifted her head he watched her as she licked her dry lips. Her mouth opened, moved, and he leaned down to be sure he could catch what she was trying to say. She seemed to be trying to form the words. What had they done to her? And why was he so terrible at reading lips?

Ma…Ma something...there was an 'M' in it, he was sure of it. And an 'N', an 'R'. Hermione. She was mouthing Hermione. Like it was something foreign. He watched her and her head snapped up, her fiery gaze on his.

"My name," she croaked.

"Yes, it's your name. Hermione."

He was startled when she ripped away from him, turned her back, ran a few steps and sank to her knees in the mud, leaning over her body. Her shoulders shook as the rain picked up and he heard her sob.

"Hermione-,"

A _crack_ broke through the air, making him jump and Hermione whip up. They both looked around and although Dean saw nothing, his couldn't make that sick feeling go away that told him something wasn't right.

"Hermione, go back, go to your barracks, quickly," he said, his voice calmer than he felt. His stomach twisted in fear. Had they been caught? "Hurry, run, quickly!"

She scrambled to her feet and looked back at him, her dark eyes haunting, before turning away and running back the way she came. When she'd disappeared into the thickening fog, he turned tail and hurried back to his own barracks, not stopping or slowing until he was hidden beneath his blanket. He slammed his eyes shut and listened to the blood roaring in his ears. Working through the fear, he willed sleep to claim him.

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She felt fear for the first time in months. She _was_ Hermione. She felt deep inside, knew she was there, somewhere, just waiting. Waiting for what? What was she waiting for? Hermione, Hermione, Hermione. The Brainiac. The Know-It-All.

The Mudblood.

That's why they were all here, wasn't it? Their blood. All it was, was blood. She _was_ a Mudblood, the daughter of Muggle parents. Her parents. Mom. Dad. Yvonne and Douglas. They were hers, her parents. And she was a witch. The best friend to Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. The girl who always raised her hand in class, the girl who had cried over Ron and Lavender, the girl who had taught Harry how to Summon for the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. The memories assailed her as she shivered beneath her thin blanket and she hugged it around her.

She was cold. It was something she had grown so familiar with she no longer felt. But now she did. It surrounded her, a constant ache. Every bit of her hurt and she reveled in it, rejoiced in the pain, in the feelings. As she remembered everything, the troll in her first year, her cat Crookshanks, following Harry into the Ministry in their fifth year, the Battle of Hogwarts in her sixth, hugging Ginny as the girl cried over Harry. She felt a tear roll down her face. Their faces raced through her mind. Harry, with his messy jet-black hair; Ron, with his bright blue eyes and freckles; Ginny, with fiery hair and a quick smile; Neville, with his sweet round face and nervous hands. There was Luna, sweet, wacky, Luna. The Weasley family; Fred and George, always quick to make a joke, Percy, stern as ever, Charlie, buoyant and full of life, Bill, quick-witted and on his feet. There was Mr. Weasley, the father of all, Mrs. Weasley, the worrier, the sweetest woman on the planet. Remus, Tonks, Kingsley, Mad-Eye Moody, Professor McGonagall, the Creevey brothers, Parvati, Padma, Lavender, Seamus and-

Dean.

Her heart pounded and it was suddenly hard to breathe. Oh, gods, Dean. Dean was here, he was in the next camp. It was _Dean_.

Hermione felt as if she'd just woken from a very long nap. She remembered everything that had happened, but it felt as if she had simply watched it, like a movie. She hadn't actually lived it. She'd been so numb. What was wrong with her? She looked around her room at the women sleeping. They were all here for the same reason. They'd been born to Muggle parents. She curled into a ball and hugged her blanket closer.

She had to get them out of here. Dean had said something. What was it? That they'd been waiting for her, hoping she was alive. They were relying on her and she'd let them down.

And Ron and Harry. Oh, gods, were they alright? Had Harry survived the last encounter? She remembered seeing Ron as an arm had hooked around her, lifted her from the ground where she was trying to heal Penelope Clearwater. Ron had turned and looked when she'd cried out. He screamed something terrible and ran for her. She'd reached for him, dropped her wand in a puddle of Penelope's blood. His fingers had been so far away, she'd never gotten to them.

That's when it had gone black and she'd woken in a cell. She later learned she'd experienced what was called among the prisoners as the "Blackout". At seemingly the same time they'd all blacked out and woken up in their barracks. Except for Hermione. She'd been in a cell. She remembered the day they'd branded her with her number. Right on the back of her neck.

0000001.

She was number one. The first Mudblood. They'd all thought it hilariously funny. She'd still been fighting then. When had she stopped? She never stopped.

It was the strangest thing. She remembered fighting and she remembered being…well, the zombie she'd been walking around as. She had been no better than the Inferi. But what had changed?

She decided not to dwell on it and instead focused on what she needed to do now that she was…for lack of a better term, awake. She kept her mind on her boys, on Ron and Harry. That was what she needed to do. She needed to focus on them, on the reason she was fighting. She needed to believe they were alive, that they were trying to get to her, that they were still fighting. How long had she been in here? It had been freezing cold outside tonight, not the nipping cold of a spring night. It had been April. April 22nd when she'd left, when she'd been stolen from the fight. How long had it been since then? She remembered counting days straight into August, but she didn't remember what day she'd counted until. It was obviously not summer any longer, her frozen fingers and toes were evidence of that.

Her eyes closed after a while, her mind finally wearing out and sleep took over. When she woke the next morning it was to a Dementor dragging out the lifeless girl in the bunk below her.

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The work was endless, grueling. How she had never noticed it before was a mystery. Her back ached, her arms protested as she hacked at another branch of a willow tree. A group had been taken to the woods that day to get wood for wands. The work was hard and tiring. When she was given lunch she ate with a ferocity she hadn't had in a long time. She tried not to look any different. She kept her head down, her mouth shut. She didn't want any reason for the Death Eaters to take her in for questioning again. She kept going because she knew that when night fell, she could go to Dean, they could figure out together what to do. She would get them all out of here. It was only a matter of time.

She lay as still as possible when the Death Eater can in for the last check to make sure they were all in their bunks. All the other girls slept soundly, exhausted from their hellish lives. She counted off ten minutes after the silver-masked bastard left and she crept silently to the floor and out into the night.

The rain pounded her body, the wind whipping at her thin dress. Her muscles convulsed at the bitter cold but she ran as fast as she could, winding her way between the buildings as she'd done so many times before. She reached the gate and grasped it, looking about. She waited patiently for a few minutes before she grew nervous. Where was he?

It had only been maybe five or ten minutes, but when his dark figure materialized out of the night she smiled in relief.

She smiled. When was the last time she'd done that?

He didn't stop running until he was inches from her, separated only by the gate. He took her hands and searched her face.

"Hermione."

She nodded and smiled up at him. He smiled hesitantly back.

"It's Dean, remember?"

"I remember you," she croaked. Her throat was dry and scratchy from non-use. He grinned.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

She nodded.

"I thought they'd taken your voice."

She shook her head.

"They didn't _Obliviate_ you?"

She shook her head.

"Then what is it? Why have you been acting this way?"

Hermione thought back. There had to be a reason. She remembered the beatings, the spell practice. She remembered the utter pain, the agony, the terror she felt every moment. And then the humiliation, the degradation, the anguish when they mounted her for the first time. Tears sprang to her eyes as she remembered the torment of knowing she'd lost her virginity to those monsters. She thought back to all the things they'd done, the pain she'd endured. She'd thought she was going to die, there was no way someone could have survived that. And then she remembered the young girl they brought in with her, the young girl they slaughtered when she refused to tell them Harry's whereabouts. She could still see that innocent face, the terrified blue eyes, the pain that had crossed her features as she'd been tortured over and over while Hermione was forced to watch, as she'd been raped repeatedly while Hermione's own body had been violated simultaneously.

Before she had thought of doing so, she was ripping away from Dean, falling back into a puddle that splashed around her, a sob ripping form her chest. He was calling out to her, his hand reaching through the fence, his face a mask of sorrow. For her.

Her fingers curled in the mud, the brown substance squelching between them as she fell back into it, her face to the sky. She couldn't stop the sobs bursting out of her, couldn't help the tears or the memories that rushed through her head. What use was she to anyone when she couldn't help herself? When she allowed a _child_ to be molested and butchered right in front of her eyes? And she'd done nothing.

The mud displaced around her, holding her in, the cold turning warm with her body heat. The rain pelted her face and her body, freezing her all over again. She didn't want to get up; she didn't want to feel anymore.

Arms came around her, pulling her to a chest, a warm, strong chest, and she was being held as she hadn't in so long.

"Don't do this, Hermione, do let go again. We need you here. I know it's hard, I know you've probably been through things that would make me sick to think of but you have to stay strong. Please, Hermione, stay with me. Stay with me."

Since when had Dean been so nice? He'd always been a warm, friendly character, someone who had always stood up for Harry, who'd always had a quick joke when things got tense. But she'd never seen this side of him. Perhaps she'd never looked.

"Come on, Hermione. Please, just stay with me." He was stroking her hair, rocking her as a babe. "I need you."

_I need you_. The words echoed in her head. She could see Harry sitting on her bed back at headquarters saying the same thing as he asked her to help him find Rowena's horcrux. As Ginny said it while crying over Harry. As Molly said it while trying to cook up a Wolfsbane Potion. As Ron said it while she'd fought him about going on a mission. They needed her. Dean needed her. All the people in these camps needed her. Hermione Jean Granger.

So she clutched Dean hard and stopped crying, because tears were getting her nowhere. They held on to each other tight, drawing strength and warmth and hope.

"I'm sorry," she choked.

"No," he said gruffly. "Don't start. You've been through too much. It's not fair for me to ask this of you but I have to. I'm not like you. I need your help if we're ever going to get out of this."

She nodded against his neck. His warmth and familiarity was comforting in the pouring rain, in the loneliness of the night. She held him harder and they simply sat there watching the puddles around them rise. It was then she realized…

"The gate," she ground out. She looked up at his dark eyes, much like her own, inches from her face. He shrugged.

"Wasn't so bad. Thought the alarms would go off but they seem to be disabled on this particular fence."

She nodded and closed her eyes. It was hard to keep the images of her confinement at bay; they lingered at the corner of her mind, threatening to pull her down. She shivered.

"Tell me a story," she begged. "Something from your childhood."

He was quiet for a minute before starting in on the first time he had shown powers. His velvet tones flowed through her and he weaved a beautiful scene of his London home and the small incident that involved him levitating his younger sister Cassidy when she wouldn't leave him and his mate Benji alone. It seems Benji ran all the way home screaming and told his mother about it and Dean never saw Benji again. As for the reaction from his sister and his parents, Hermione never heard for she had fallen asleep to his comforting words.

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Dean watched her sleep for a while, not wanting to let her go for several reasons. One was the fact that he was warmer than he'd been in months, despite the torrential rain. Another was the calm written on Hermione's face. He doubted she'd had much rest and if the women were subjected to the type of work the men were, he knew she was well and exhausted. He himself felt his eyelids tugging down, sleep threatening to overpower him. But he couldn't let them be caught and they were due to have another check up soon. So he roused the sleeping girl and told her to hurry back to her barracks. She nodded, gave him one last squeeze, and disappeared into the night, hunched against the rain. Dean got to his feet and scaled the chain-link as he had before. When he'd seen her go down his heart had leapt to his chest and he had reacted without thought, realizing much later that they could have been caught. Tumbling down on his side, he jogged to his bed and crawled into it, ignoring the amount of mud and muck on his clothing. He'd have to make an excuse for it in the morning.

The wooden board and thin blanket were little comfort in the chilling night. But the memory of holding Hermione in his arms was enough to lull him to sleep.

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The next morning while Hermione clung to a branch fifteen feet up in a tree, she peered over the quiet woods and her mind raced. The trees and brush were daunting, but there was hope. Glancing at the women below her, tired and beaten, she knew they had to try.

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XOXO

RynStar15


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